The least repellent of the three warriors displayed some superiority in dress to the others. The hunting shirt had more fringes at the bottom; the dilapidated moccasins showed a few more beads, and he had three stained eagle feathers pointing upward from his crown, while neither of the others sported more than two. From these facts and a certain deference shown by the couple, George and Victor believed this fellow was a chief among his people. Furthermore, our friends were convinced that this particular redskin was the father of the boys, and I may add that in both suppositions the brothers were right. “Howdy?” grinned the leader, who was a pace or two in advance of the others. As he spoke he extended his right hand to George, his long bow being in the left hand. “Howdy?” replied George, taking the palm of the other. “I am glad to see my brothers,” he hypocritically added. It was quickly apparent that none of the Indians could speak English. The salutation of the leader was the only word he knew. He made a response to George’s greeting, but it was unintelligible to the boys. He said something more, and, releasing his hand, reached out and took George’s rifle from his grasp. It was done so deftly that the weapon was gone before the owner knew it. “Why did you let him have that?” asked the resentful Victor. “He took it before I had any idea of what he was after. Maybe he only wants to look over it.” The chief held up the gun, inspected the hammer and trigger, squinted one eye down the barrel (and Victor Shelton never wished more fervently that the rifle would go off), pretended to aim at some target in the distance, and then, instead of returning the weapon to the owner, passed it to one of his warriors. He next looked at Victor, and took two or three steps toward him. The boy retreated, shaking his head and griping his weapon with both hands. “There’ll be a fight before you get this, you old scamp!” replied the lad, compressing his lips and showing his anger so plainly that no one could mistake. The dusky countenance of the chief took on a dangerous glint and his black eyes twinkled threateningly. “Better let him have it,” said his brother. “There’s no help for it.” “He doesn’t get it without a fight. I won’t stand like a lamb and let him rob me.” The consequences must have been serious had not Mul-tal-la, the Blackfoot, put in an appearance at this critical moment. He came over the ridge from behind the boys, proving that he had crossed the devastated valley some time before. All the strangers turned their faces toward the new arrival, and it was apparent from the expression on the face of the chief that he recognized Mul-tal-la. They had met when the Blackfoot passed through this region the year before, though none of the other four knew him. The chief seemed really glad to meet the wanderer. They greeted each other and talked for several minutes, as if they had not the slightest knowledge of the presence of the others.